Page 51 of Love Is an Art
What was I saying about karma?
“The deception seems to be dominating the truth,” I say.
“I don’t see it that way,” Zeke says. “If we are interpreting the gray as the deception, I see the truth as peeking out. Don’t you think that the pink is shining brighter than the gray?”
I glance at Zeke. For a finance guy, he’s not bad at interpreting art. “It does. But I still feel sad.”
“Let’s find a happier painting, then,” Zeke says.
We try to move away from the guy, but he is undeterred.
“Wow! Look at this! What an example of wet-on-wet cross-hatching. It gives a post-apocryphal feeling, like it can’t be contained within the canvas.”
Both Zeke and I nod very seriously.
“Definitely,” I say. “Definitely post-conceptual.”
“I thought it was post-apocryphal?” Zeke asks.
I’m not even sure what either of these terms mean. “I think it’s both, don’t you?”
The guy smiles. “I knew you guys would see it.”
“Dystopian and bleak,” Zeke says. “The end of painting as we know it.”
“And I thought I had achieved that last time with my auction painting,” I say.
Zeke grins at me.
“Let’s go look at the Matisses. I love Matisse.” I can tell him there. I grab Zeke’s hand and pull him away from Mr. Brushwork. We hurry down the crowded hallway and up the escalator to the Matisse room. The woman in front of us puts her arm around her partner, leaning into him and kissing him.
We’re standing right behind them on the escalator, not touching. It feels distant and awkward as the couple in front of us makes out. Zeke glances away. I look out over the railing at the people below. The couple manages to disentangle in time to get off the escalator. We follow.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That lecture was probably pretty boring for you.”
“Not at all. Watching you try to stay awake kept me highly entertained.”
I glance at him. I was that obvious. “You have to admit, the speaker spoke in a low monotone. He should create an app where he lulls people to sleep. He could make a lot of money.”
We enter the Matisse gallery. It’s also crowded. So much for my hope that it would be kind of empty and soothing and a good place to tell him the truth.
Next to us, a woman is explaining to her date that Matisse initially paintedHarmony in Redin green and called itHarmony in Green. And then he changed the color to blue and called itHarmony in Blue. And then a collector bought it, but Matisse changed his mind again and painted it red. The collector still accepted it. The color of a painting seems like a pretty significant change to me. There’s hope that Zeke will still accept me even if I’m a lawyer and not an artist. My hands feel clammy. I’m losing my courage to tell him. I was so ready to blurt it out on my way over to the museum.
My phone beeps. It’s Ken.
“Oh sorry, it’s work,” I say.
“Work?”
“Volunteer work,” I say. “Can you excuse me for a second?”
Ken tells me that our client came by and dropped off the documentation I’d requested, so he’s sending it over. I hang up and turn back to Zeke.
“So, are you going to tell me your secret?” he asks.
I stare at him.How does he know?
“A childhood secret?” he asks.
